“Hat, did you see Sputnik go over then or were you asleep?”
“Heck no, I seed it blinking, same as you.”
Hat was Hat Russell. Hosea was myself, James Perry. All us boys who went to Rose Hill Elementary School together had nicknames. Dan Patch Cooke, Jerry Killer Keller, Hat, Johnny Milton Russell, Jerald Hobock known as Hobock, Howard Wyrick Esquire, Pig Larry Perry, Bobcat Bobby Perry, and Pigtail Dennis Perry. The only boy from our group without a nickname was Wayne Hurst.
Every Saturday night a cavalcade of pick-up trucks and some cars came by our house and climbed the dirt road to our “little field” on top of the mountain that ran through our farm. The little field was the second highest elevation in Union County, overlooking Norris Lake and on a clear day you could see the Smoky Mountains to the east and the Cumberland Mountain to the west and five miles of Norris Lake. Every Saturday night from May ’til September the Union and Claiborne fox hunters met on our little field for their weekly fox hunt.
Now for you immigrants and big city folk the foxes were not hurt or killed during the fox hunt. Heck, the foxes enjoyed leading the red ticks, blue ticks, Plott hounds and other mongrel dogs on a merry chase through the woods, cliffs over Norris Lake, up hills, across Ridge Road and most Saturday nights close enough to the bonfire to be seen by the slightly inebriated fox hunters arguing whose dog was in the lead and closer to the fox. The foxes were like a 1956 Ford with a 312 cid police special motor. That is anytime they could press their accelerator and leave the pack of mongrel dogs in their dust. There was always a dozen quart mason jars with some refreshing clear beverage that was passed around to each fox hunter except those under fourteen.
The foxes that participated every Saturday night played with the dogs who never caught on to the fact that they (the dogs) were entertainment to both the foxes and the slightly inebriated (almost drunk) fox hunters. The only complaints came from the young fox hunters whose job was never to let the bonfire go out. “Bring more wood for the fire, Clem.”
It’s about midnight and all fox hunters have to stop their lying, collect their mutts, put them into cages, go home, sleep off their beverage, in other words sober up and be ready for church Sunday morning to hear the Rev. Phillious Bluster preach all sots and drunks into hell.
Well, all us local boys who ranged from ten to fifteen years of age were outside the glow of the bonfire mostly laying on our backs watching the night sky to see Sputnik as it circled the globe, blinking, and to watch and listen to the lies told around the fireside by these salt of the earth men who would be back Monday working in the fields, cutting timber or working jobs in Knox County. See you next month.